Mister E
by sparrowed
Summary: Cuddy is missing. The culprit has left clues that would ultimately lead to her whereabouts. And we all know House loves riddles. Huddy, but there is a lot of Hilson bromantic camaraderie -- just sayin'. References to Sherlock Holmes and Batman.
1. Preface

****

_Preface_

This was beyond chivalry.

Twenty-four hours ago, I wouldn't have gotten off of my ass to fulfill my allocated clinical duties for her. But here I am now, sporting a hired tux, wearing my once-treasured pair of checkered Converse Chuck Taylors, skulking through a knee-high torrent of pungent sewerage waste, illuminating my vision with nothing but a feeble birthday candle that melted warm wax on my fingers, and in the other hand, held is a Gandalf-type of staff, in the pursuit of finding -- well, possibly _saving_ her. Saving her from some deranged lunatic who labels himself as 'Mister E'.

"Mister _E,"_ I sneered, squinting through the dark and finally perceiving the wall that I had been searching for. "Mister _I,_ Mister _U,_ Mister _O-_lookit-me."

Sneer all I might, my body involuntarily persisted its pursuit to save Lisa Cuddy. Of course, I wanted nothing more than for her to be unharmed, and that wasn't just because I was evading the risk of mounting up my work load. Never did I expect to be the hero in her narrative in any point or time. If I was the one to ultimately save her, I would do so before getting the hell out of there. No way will my mug be printed on the front of a grainy newspaper, accompanied with a glaring slogan that declares my act of heroics. Think of the all the awful possible 'house' puns! _Blech._

I shook my head wildly, chiding my conceited thoughts. As much as the truth piqued my overgrown ego, this situation was not about me. Cuddy was in grave danger; if I, or the authorities do not succeed in liberating her from this enigmatic moron, she _will _die. My lack of haste has already taken more lives than I have saved over the past month -- yes, Cuddy was not alone in her jeopardy.

Cuddy dead was like the Joker without his Batman -- who will be the adamant object to my inextinguishable efforts? I would never find another one like her. It kills me to admit it but, I needed her. And she needed me right now, more than ever. No matter how retarded I looked right now. Okay, maybe a little.

Wherever she was, wherever this 'Mister E' had taken her, were theories I lacked. But as I finally reach my destination -- which was unmissable in view of the large chalk-drawn 'X' on the bottom of the manhole lid that was settled above me -- I snuck in a deep breath of anticipation as I clambered up the corroded stairs, about to find out.

As I climbed, I briefly wondered if Cuddy's faith in me remained solid, and that she was awaiting my arrival. When it comes down to it, I _am_ quite reliable. Really. I'm about to prove it.


	2. Goodnight

****

_Goodnight_

My daily servitude in Hell, also known as the _Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital_, had finally come to an end. The laborious hours seemed double the actuality when your workplace's environment was filled with the screeching monkeys -- sorry, brats -- _sorry,_ children. I could be more specific and say 'minors', but sometimes adults can be more childish than any offspring of Generation Y. I grinned. Says someone who plays Grand Theft Auto all day on a PSP.

I patted my treasured gaming console, ensuring me of its security in the left pocket of my jeans, as I swung one leg over the side of my baby. I mean, my motorcycle. Ah yes, the helmet. Should I risk crippling myself further? It was late at night; wearing said helmet would only obscure my vision. I knew I had to, otherwise where else would I put the wretched sphere-like object? I supposed wearing the damned shell would be the lesser of two evils. After all, I would certainly be avoiding any possibility of garnering a ticket from the coppers. And if I had an accident -- on the road, _not_ in my pants -- I'd just be going to work again. Who better to treat me than myself?

I was about to put my helmet on when I heard a voice.

"Nice shoes."

Before I could even associate the voice with a recognized face, I complacently countered. "Goddamn right they are." Converse Chuck Taylors. Checkered ones. They reign epically over any other make of shoes. It is simply impossible to think otherwise. Anyone who does should jump in a pit. Mine are less than twenty-four hours old, in my possession, at least.

But back to the voice -- it was a woman's voice. The sound of heels clacking towards me against the concrete road identified the voice with a specific person. Impulsively, I smiled. It was later that I thanked my lucky stars that my back was turned to her when I did this.

"I'd never have guessed for you to be the type to wear those," Cuddy mused aloud, appearing at my right side with folded arms, smiling amusedly down at my shoes. I stifled a flattered grin; she was feeding my ego. I refused to let her perceive just how much she affected me, so I maintained my signature, impassive smirk as I replied.

"I'm not normally a _'take-the-kids-to-work'_ type of guy." My sarcastic response seemed to expected, which didn't surprise me. Our conversations are built on it. The hold of my helmet felt awkward in my hands, as if I didn't know what to do with it. I nearly scoffed out loud at myself. Moron; _helmets_ go on your _head._

There was an inquisitive tilt of her head. She feigned interest as she replied, "I didn't know you had kids."

Damn right I do. I shrugged nonchalantly. "Just Chuck Taylor left and right, and Honda here." I patted a handle of my bike, illustrating my point. Hang on, I'm not the only one with twins...

"Speaking of kids," I gave her a very pointed nod at her womanly chest area, despite her arms being folded over them. "I'd sure like to meet the twins one day, _first-hand." _I ended it with a very charming wagging of my eyebrows and awaited her reaction. I relished hers, more than anybody else's.

Cuddy's eyes objected to my distasteful insinuation, but her widened smile told me that she was none the surprised. Her routine reaction to my routine quips. It's this thing we have, like, y'know, whatever.

Her arms dropped from their folded state as she turned to leave, with a courteous nod of acknowledgment. "Goodnight, House."

I frowned, and cursed the sudden feeling of disappointment that washed over me when she turned away to leave. I was just getting started! Plus I had just granted myself the perfect opportunity to stare at her breasts. But then again, from this angle, I _could_ stare at her ass, that was teasing me as she strutted away from me.

...but even more appealing was her face, so I called out to her.

"You dragged your red-sore heels all the way out here, from the solacing sancutary of your office to say _that?" _I asked in an incredulous tone. Success! She stopped. She turned around -- just in time for me to see her biting her lip. Tempting as it made her seem, more so than usual, it also struck me a sign that something was bothering her. I tried not to show my concern.

"Yeah," she said breezily, with an artificial smile, "and compliment your shoes." I could see it in her eyes; that wasn't all. Something really was bothering her, but the opportunity for my ego to wallow in her face was too appealing to pass up.

"Are you attracted to the boys, Cuddy?" I asked, narrowing my eyes into feline-like slits. I rascally wiggled my right foot in her direction, and she simply wrinkled her nose at my bizarre gestures. "Maybe I should wear them everyday. You'll follow them like breadcrumbs, hand and foot, until you realize you've followed them all the way to my apartment." I cast her another hyperbolic gaze of seduction.

"Maybe you should," she instantly retorted sassily, pressing her hands against her hips in a domineering fashion. She regarded me with challenging eyes -- no, she was _eye-sexing_ me. "Wear them tomorrow and we'll see who'll be on their knees for who."

"Yes, ma'am!" I exclaimed with exaggerated enthusiasm. Cuddy chuckled lightly, and I sensed a silence approaching; it was a chance for me to seriously question her motives. She must have sensed the approaching silence too, and said:

"Goodnight, House." -- thus terminating any chance I had.

She didn't wait for a bid in return, because I seldom gave one. When I did, it was always to her. I respectfully bobbed my head in return though, knowing she wouldn't see it, before finally slipping on my helmet and speeding off into the night.

That evil, conniving enchantress. Somehow, she managed to crowd my thoughts without causing me to get totaled. She'll never know, she would never let me live that down.

I eagerly awaited the next day with surprising fervor.


	3. Oddity, pt 1

**A/N:** I don't really like this chapter LOL. But anyway, since I've finally taken the time to write an author's note, I gotta say thanks a bundle for the wonderful reviews so far! I don't know where I plan to take this fanfic...not _really._ Obviously I have a beginning and an end (kinda)...it's the middle that is gonna be a challenge. I really should stop beginning fanfics without knowing where it'll lead...my fic for The Dark Knight is like, dead.

Speaking of the TDK-aka-Batman, certain elements of this story may refer to The Riddler of Batman. But not too much. ;)

* * *

**_Oddity; pt 1_**

_Ring, ring!_

What's that I hear? A phone call from a moron? I had hoped this day would end uneventful. And it was just when the glaring light of the television was beginning to abate and burden my eyelids. Bastard. Disgruntled, I blindly limped forward in the direction of the incessant ringing that seemed louder than usual. Wiping the nonexistent sleep from my eyes, my brows puckered confusedly when my feet didn't feel the cool sensation of my floorboards. Ha, that's right. I was sleeping in my Chuck Taylors on the couch.

I answered the phone with a scowl powerful enough to be transmitted through my tone.

"Suicide Hotline."

"House," barked an assertive male's voice. It was Wilson. He always said my name like that in a vain attempt to coax me to behave. It doesn't work, but it compels me to listen. "Has Cuddy called you recently?"

Probably. Maybe she encountered more indignant former patients of mine and demands an apology from me. I then noted that Wilson's utilization of words could be manipulated to my advantage.

"Hm, it what sense are we speaking of?" Ha, I could just see Wilson face-palming himself stressfully; I indulged myself in an amused smirk at such an image.

"House --" There was that ineffectual, authoritative tone again. Le sigh. Oh Jimmy. "-- Cuddy called my cell a total of...forty-two times. What do you say to _that?"_

I'm hungry. This could take a while. I ambled in the direction of my kitchen as he spoke. I should thank myself for opting for a cordless home telephone. I poked my head into the fridge and peered over my limited variety of nourishment.

"She's trying to inform you of her age?" I countered, wrinkling my nose in chagrin upon observing my fridge that was evidently deprived of anything fitting enough for a midnight snack. I shut the door, dissatisfied, and leaned back against it. "The next time you see her, buoy her up and tell her that she doesn't look a day over thirty. Chicks dig that, y'know."

As expected, Wilson ignored my antics. As usual, I'm not at all dismayed since I know every jest I make ruffles his feathers.

"I left my phone on Silent in my office while I was in the clinic," he said. "I tried calling her back but she's not answering. Has she tried contacting you?"

His was the only phone call I've received tonight, besides that Indian guy -- no, _not_ Kutner. On my home phone, that is. Although, on my cell...

"I wouldn't know." It was an honest answer, because: "My phone died three hours ago." Crap. A pang of concern suddenly struck me, and it was strong enough to send me hobbling back to the coffee table, flicking the lights on along the way. I grabbed my phone and thumbed down the 'on' button.

"Not even your home phone?" he asked in his signature apprehensive tone. I muttered an expletive under my breath when my cell refused to revive. I knew I should have plugged the damn charger in! So what was Wilson saying? Right, home phone. Did Cuddy call? No, it was just Wilson and that Indian guy, who kept calling and calling and...

"Uhh..." was all I could muster when something dawned on me. It seemed to have the same effect on Wilson too.

I heard him sigh; his apprehension temporarily fading as he sensed that I may have registered something crucial. He groaned, "She did, didn't she?"

I could never be sure, but _damn it_ -- why didn't I answer the phone?

"It's probable..." I mumbled warily in length. Curse my tone; suck it up, fool. I may be wrong, I _hope._ I continued, "Some outsourced telemarketer from Bollywood called me first. And then the phone just kept ringing and ringing and I assumed that it was them again, pressuring me to switch phone service providers."

Pause. I cringed at it. I loathed pauses that followed my speaking, especially from Wilson. I could feel the heat of his glare through the phone, as he lulled over this additional piece of information.

"And you just _ignored_ it?" he deadpanned. Oh yeah. His expressionless tone was just painting me a picture of how he currently looked -- livid. The stony kind of livid. The _worst_ kind of livid. It's when people barely react is when it unnerves me.

_"Wilson," _I mocked his authoritative tone, and I could sense him scowling harder now. "I am _not_ getting up to answer the phone during a Family Guy marathon, okay?" There really was one playing when I was trying to sleep -- I spun around to the television -- and it still is. It was a Star Wars episode and -- my eyes widened -- oh my God, I _loved_ this episode!

"House, Cuddy could be in trouble!" Wilson exclaimed incredulously. Poor paranoid James. He's like an illegal alien; prudent of their own actions and the concerns of the people around them.

"And _I_ could be watching Blue Harvest by now!" I rambled, falling back on the sofa, my eyes fixated to the screen. Darth Stewie, how I love you. "Goodbye!"

"Hou--" I hung up.

Sorry Wilson. But come on -- _Blue Harvest!_


	4. Oddity, pt 2

****

_Oddity; pt 2_

I woke up and I saw that _Blue Harvest_ was nearing the close of its rolling credits. I squinted at the harsh light that searingly pierced from every direction -- _ugh,_ no wonder I had woken up. I sat upright on the sofa and buried my head in my hands, easing myself into comfort with the light. Once I felt my eyes adjust to the radiance of the room, I lifted my head. My cordless phone remained on the coffee table in front of me.

Oh, right. Wilson, worried about Cuddy, on tenterhooks...

I frowned. I might as well give the baby his bottle and give Cuddles a ring. As in a phone call, not a marriage proposal -- now _that'_s a larf.

I scrolled down to Cuddy's name in the Phonebook and hit call. It rang five times before she picked up -- five rings was a long time for a hospital administrator, but then again, what time was it? I didn't give her a chance to grunt and groan at me since my slight concern over her well-being had vanished, which meant I could properly hit the sack in contentment.

"Praise the Lord, she lives!" I proclaimed in mock triumph. Yesss. I had another excuse to bait Wilson. And yes, Cuddy was safe, which was also peachy. "Listen, Wilson's having a bitch. Call him, he thinks you've been abducted by aliens and are being repeatedly anal probed."

She was taking an awful long time to counter with her routine, bitter demands of my intentions. Was she still too disoriented from being roused from her slumber? Surely it didn't take that long for her eyes to adjust to bedroom lamp-lights, and to register who was calling and why. Bemused, I frowned faintly.

"_Cuddy._"

"H-House?" No way in Hell was she sleeping. She was wide awake. And there was only one reason a woman like her would be wide awake at this hour -- besides working. Which she wasn't. Because tonight she was given the rare opportunity to sleep at home. Though, force of habit, I had called her cell. But back to my suspicions over the tone of her voice...it was hushed and quavering.

"Am I interrupting something?" I asked, my eyes narrowing in suspicion. If she was doing what I thought she was doing, I _hoped_ I had interrupted it. Or... "Actually, can I join in? Either you're at a pot party or someone's reaching their big O..."

"Um, I forgot to tell you something," she whispered. Timidly. Despite my rising concern, I maintained a voice of mockery.

"My invite?"

"The hospital is hosting a costume party all day tomorrow," she informed me in one breath. There was an audible gulp. "I want you to wear a suit."

"Do birthday suits count?" My quips were on rapid fire. I moved from the couch and limped towards my bedroom, cane in hand, yet unused.

"W-wear a suit...a-and I'll call off all of your clinic hours for a month." No dice. She needed to sweeten the deal.

"Make that six months," I haggled, settling onto my bed, smoothly crossing my feet at my ankles. Chuck Taylor left and right were still there.

"Deal." _SCORE!_ Wait...what? "Gotta go," she suddenly added in a rush.

"Wait." She did, as I didn't hear the terminal click of the phone. My brows knitted; something wasn't right. Her immediate submission to my negotiations seemed perverse. "You usually browbeat me to slash the bargain until it meets with your approval." No defense was heard from her. My eyes narrowed dubiously. "Why the generosity?"

"Goodbye, House." Ah, so there was the recognized negation to my interrogations. The familiar moment made the corners of my mouth turn upwards. Nothing was wrong; Wilson had just set up the moment to make me subject to paranoia. Bastard.

"Night, Cuddy," I bid in return with a pleased smile. Now, time to catch some Z's.

.

..

...

....

.....

....

...

..

.

I suddenly awoke with a start. It was still dark. I've probably only been asleep for an hour, tops. Yet I was wide awake.

An epiphany. I was having an epiphany.

Cuddy said 'goodbye', not 'goodnight'.


	5. A Site For Sore Eyes

_****__A Site For Sore Eyes_

I felt like such a dick. Riding my bitchin' bike in this damn penguin suit. I wonder if anyone will notice that I'm wearing the same suit I wore on Casino Night. I wonder if Cuddy will notice, because she _will_ be there. Why else wouldn't she be there? It was her hospital, after all. It would be awfully unprofessional of her to not show up, especially on the day of the hospital's costume party...

I parked my Honda and limped into the hospital.

...make that _supposed _costume party.

Business seemed beyond booming, as physicians and interns flittered about, at a much faster, more _hysterical_ pace than I was accustomed to. I fared a few odd eyeballs here and there, but overall, no one really acknowledged my presence. I stopped at the front desk, where receptionists were hastily prattling about on the phone.

"Was the costume party axed --" I began to ask, loud enough to carry my voice around the room and turn some heads in my direction, if only for a moment, " -- or are you _all_ just horribly unoriginal?"

Heads whirled back around to their own duties, and people proceeded to power-walk their way around the clinic. I glared forward, though it was a glare directed to all that disregarded me. I hated being ignored. How _could_ they ignore me when I was dressed like _this?_

"Doctors," I sneered sardonically, making a beeline for the elevator, "you're all dressed as doctors." I then spoke loud again, and succeeded in turning some heads before my view of them disappeared behind the closing doors of the elevator. "Who on earth wants to be a _doctor?"_

What the...? The doors didn't even get a chance to close once, before they opened again. There was a foot in the door, and then an exhausted Wilson standing before me, panting.

"There you are!" Wilson choked out, his hands resting against the door, both for support and to prevent them from closing. He looked as if he had just ran a marathon. Not a good look, Jimmy.

I sighed pitifully, and regarded him with plaintive eyes. "I thought we had ended our little game of Hide and Seek thirty years ago. Face it Wilson, I'm _that_ good at hiding." He wasn't listening. He was glowering at me and...my choice of attire.

"Why are you in a suit?" he asked crabbily, frowning at my clothes with distaste. _Someone_ woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning...

I shrugged nonchalantly, as I suavely tugged the lapels of my suit coat. "Cuddy and I like to role-play. Cos we're kinky like that."

Concern had washed over Wilson's face the very moment I had mentioned her. "Cuddy..." he murmured to himself, as if he suddenly remembered something significant. Cuddy, huh? I had just enough time to frown at him curiously, before his brown eyes flashed up at me intensely and began tugging me out of the elevator by the elbow. "Come on, I think you should see this." My feet involuntarily obliged.

"Did she finally give in to my threesome proposition, and she and another babe are waiting the arrival of _The Man?"_ I asked fervently. I was awarded with a heated glare from him, and I merely responded with a haughty grin that would only vex him further. His grip on my elbow hardened as he thrust me in the direction of Cuddy's office.

Ooh, touchy. A look of confusion mingled on my face as I stared questioningly back at a petulant James Wilson. "Shut up, and look," he grunted, pointing at her office.

Rolling my eyes, I turned my head from him and towards Cuddy's office. My eyes widened vaguely.

Mmkay. Huh. Well, this was unexpected.

I was expecting to see Cuddy snoring into her paperwork, maybe with a hangover, maybe with a crappy haircut, maybe wearing a shockingly more revealing ensemble, maybe wearing a shockingly less revealing ensemble. What I saw, was no Cuddy at all. Instead, it was a room that resembled a site that had been struck by a 200mph hurricane. Maybe that was over-exaggerating, but goddamn, no longer did it bear resemblance to a proper workplace.

"What happened?" I asked humorlessly. "Vandals?" It was a ludicrous presumption, I know. Unless there were about fifty vandals, all attacking a place at once.

"Yeah," Wilson scoffed beside me; he must have thought my presumption was ludicrous as well. Despondently, he shook his head at the disastrous scene before us. "Maybe the vandals teamed up with the kidnappers."

_What?_ Kidnappers? What? My head instantly whipped around to Wilson, for an explanation. Where was Cuddy?

Before I could voice my bewilderment, a stout copper, most likely the lieutenant, approached us with his hands sternly pressed against his hips. "Nope, by the looks of it, all this has been induced by one person, and one person alone."

_One_ person? What is he, retarded? Where was Cuddy? I would have vocalized my thoughts, if it weren't for the fact that I had been paralyzed with shock. And fear. And confusion. Just a crapload of emotions. Where was Cuddy? Thankfully, Wilson voiced it for me. In a more mannerly fashion, unfortunately. And again -- where was Cuddy?

"Are you saying they did all this single-handedly?" Wilson asked incredulously.

The cop's lips were grimly pressed into a line, as he nodded ruefully. "Wished I were lying, but yeah." My eyes flittered briefly down at his badge. Lieutenant Jeffrey Skeevers. What he lacks in physical fitness, he _better_ make up in competence -- he was lieutenant, after all.

"Goddamn," Wilson gagged out breathlessly, inadvertently mirroring the cop as he pressed his clammy hands against his hips. He shook his head in disbelief for a moment, before it shot back up as curiosity struck again. "Any suspects, lieutenant?" I remained paralyzed, besides the increased rate of my breathing and my eyes flicking to and from each men. Where -- was -- _Cuddy?_

Frowning regrettably, Skeevers shrugged as he tucked his hands into his pockets. "Doctor Cuddy is a hospital administrator. In view of her particular circumstance, there are endless cases of animosity towards her that could have led to this." Skeevers sighed forlornly. His eyes drifted off distractedly as he began to list all possibilities. "Malcontented patients, resentful employees, mercenary benefactors..." His eyes settled back to focus, to and from Wilson's and mine's. "...or maybe just bitter competition between others in her field that has been taken too far."

"Is she hurt?"

Both pairs of eyes regarded me. Oh, was that me? Did I say that? Skeevers answered the question in my direction, so it _must_ have been me.

"There are no traces of blood to the naked eye," Skeevers informed both of us, though his interchanging gazes seemed mostly concentrated at me, "so unless the perpetrator has harmed her in a different manner, or has planned to abuse her somewhere other than her office, then no, she isn't hurt. But still, when forensics arrive, they'll go through her office with a fine-tooth comb."

An automatic snort came from me. "And here I thought the folks of Forensic Science were into high-tech gadgets and microscopic doodads," I jested, with feigned awe. My eyes flew open after I said it. It fell out. It was an automatic response. Wilson's face read a mixture of shock; he seemed appalled that I had the decency (or lack thereof) to joke at a time like this. Skeevers just looked downright baffled. His beady eyes blinked at me.

"Was that a joke?" he asked, squinting at me, as if trying to discern whether or not I was for real.

"Whoof, tough crowd." I glanced at Wilson. Judging by his seething glare, perhaps it was unwise of me to mask a joke with another joke. It was then when I actually had the consideration to incline my head and avoid his eyes, demonstrating my regret. In avoidance of Wilson's eyes, my gaze was directed to the calamitous site that was once Cuddy's office. The nest of our round-the-clock tongue lashings and verbal shoot-outs -- gone.

"Mind if we have a look around?" Wilson seemed to read my mind. I looked back up at the lieutenant expectantly. There was a long pause, as the fat cop's eyes darted between Wilson and I. Come _on._ I fought the urge to roll my eyes; instead, my gaze only hardened.

"I...wouldn't recommend it," Skeevers replied with careful eyes. He seemed to be considering it. He added, elaborating, "In preservation of the evidence."

My patience was unnaturally paper thin at that moment, which is why I cuttingly shot back, "If you haven't noticed, we're no longer wearing our Pull-Ups, I don't care how young you think we look." Skeevers didn't look impressed. I could sense Wilson's attempt in sending me a telepathic reprimand. I ignored it all. "Let us in."

Skeevers sighed deeply. I knew his answer before he even said it; I could see the irritation in his eyes, and the regret that he was trying to convince himself with. He stepped aside and gestured the threshold to Cuddy's office.

"Don't touch anything," Skeevers grunted begrudgingly as I hobbled past him, deliberately forgetting to thank him. I sensed Wilson following suit. Skeevers was still watching me with vigilant eyes, I could feel it. So in response to him, I replied;

"I was saving that for myself."


	6. Batman and Robin

**_Batman and Robin_**

It was amazing that I managed to stand there, in the very center of the room (where I was sure I had made an indentation in the carpet due to my endless visits), and glower cryptically as I ordinarily did in that room. It amazed me because this time was not 'ordinary'. It's possible that a part of me yearned for it to be; for me to squeeze my eyes shut, open them, and become relieved to see that I had merely zoned out of consciousness due to Cuddy's ineffectual reprimands.

Cuddy.

Oh for God's sake, where _was_ she? It was a late reaction, but I finally acknowledged the severity of the devastation in the room, and realized that the seriousness _could_ be said the same for Cuddy's condition. That is, if that bastard laid a hand on her yet. So help me God -- if there is one -- if he did, I _will_ remove his. And if we're running early in time, I'll shove them up his ass when no one's looking.

"You got five minutes before you're out," spoke a familiar voice; the cop's. I didn't have to turn around to know that he had just poked his head through the doors to deliver that message. I sensed Wilson turning to acknowledge him. "Forensics is on their way and if they see you in here, expect some wigs to be hurled to the floor."

"Blech," I instantly grimaced in disgust. I didn't turn, but I inclined my head to the side so my voice carried to Skeevers. "Let me know if there are brauds on the forensics team -- that sight'll _definitely_ clear the room."

There were three men in the room, and two of them rolled their eyes, I just know it. One of them wasn't me, obviously. After a moment's pause, I could sense that Skeevers had disappeared behind the door once again. I suddenly felt the need to gulp, as I stepped forward to Cuddy's desk. Wilson was speaking, prattling on and and vocalizing his worries, even when having the knowledge that I wasn't listening, in the very least. Good for him.

Instead, my concentration was solely fixated on that tiny pink square of paper stuck onto one of the few surviving panes of glass in the window. It flittered about in the wind, which gusted through some of the more unluckier panes of glass. As it danced wildly with it's rather _windy_ partner, I could see that there was writing on the other side, that teased me with its existence as it flapped about.

_Damn,_ I'm poetic.

"What's that?" Wilson. He was standing right next to me, I didn't even apprehend his presence until now. I was too fixated on that little pink post-it with writing that I could not yet decipher. There was an 'H' ... and an 'O' ... and a 'U' ... and a -- hey, wait a minute...

I reached out to take it.

"Don't touch it!" came Wilson's paranoid cry. His hand flew out to swat mine away, but hesitated. He probably thought the gesture was a little too gay.

"It's mine," I replied blankly.

"House." There was his ineffective, disapproving tone again. My eyes pointed upwards at his tone; I wasn't even going to grant him the dignity to roll them. I turned to him, and spoke slowly, as if he were an incredibly slow person.

"This is the part where you say, 'I don't see your name on it!'--" He rolled his eyes and shifted the weight between his feet at my childishness, when really, I was being totally serious, despite my mocking nature, "-- and then I'm supposed to point out your ignorance and say, 'It's right there!'"

I lifted the slip of pink paper ever so slightly, revealing my name. It was up-side down, but it was there. Judging by Wilson's loss for words, he seemed to be taken aback. He must be so used to expecting a sarcastic gesture whenever I employed my sarcastic tone. Makes sense. He seemed shocked that I was telling the truth. Wilson leaned into the post-it, to scrutinize it from a closer angle.

"What is it, a message?" he asked in suspicion. He glanced at me, wide-eyed with disbelief. "To you?"

Honestly, I was in just as much disbelief as he was. I frowned harder, inwardly trying to fathom what this message may or may not say.

"It's _something_ for me," I replied lowly, almost to myself, rather than a response to Wilson. Reverting back to my mocking nature, I suddenly shot him a wide-eyed, pleading stare. "Do I have your permission to inspect what is rightfully mine?"

"I don't know," he sighed undecidedly, pressing his hands against his hips. I frowned; he was taking me seriously. I fought back the urge to roll my eyes as he pointlessly elaborated. "I think forensics should take a look at it before you get your fingerprints all over it."

I made a reaction that looked as if I had been smacked in the face -- in a way, I was, by his very stupid retort. "That wasn't a question. I was just sarcastically pointing out the paradox in asking you for permission."

As I plucked the pink post-it off of the window, I could sense Wilson reacting with his classic 'disapproving scowl then scolding tilt of the head' number. I read the message with one glance. My eyebrows automatically shot to the sky.

**_TO 'HOUSE'_**

**_Riddle Me This_**

**_a sIDekICk wOUlD bE cOnvENieNT_**

**_- Mister E_**

"Well?" He sounded intrigued; he must have caught my little reaction and it must have piqued his interest. I decided to deliberately stir him.

"Would you look at _that..."_ I breathed in a hushed tone in awe. I could feel the room's unoccupied mass decrease as Wilson's eyes swelled at the sound of my tone.

"What is it?" he asked with urgency.

"A message!" Turning to Wilson, I pulled a face which was supposed to resemble a face of astonishment. I saw him deflate immediately. "What an unforeseen gesture!"

"And what does it say?" he murmured, scowling at me with tired eyes; his patience was audibly wearing thin. I don't blame him; this situation being what it was and all...

With the sticky part stuck on the tip of my finger, I pointed it out to him and he read it once, before assuming the post-it into his own hands. A sidekick with be convenient, huh? Well, since the message was addressed to me, I figured that it meant that I was the advocate in need of an accomplice. That was _easy._

Assuming that Wilson was just as fast a reader as I am (though you'd have to be pretty damn retarded to require anymore than two seconds to comprehend the message) I slapped a possessive hand onto Wilson's shoulder, making him jump startlingly under my hold. Done. Upon the bewildered expression he shot me, I said, "Got one. Now what?"

For a moment, Wilson appeared quite disgruntled to be assumed as a sidekick of mine, before he sighed defeatedly, seemingly at an instantaneous loss with any theories.

"Give me your phone," he said, holding out his hand expectantly.

I narrowed my eyes at him. Who could he call? The cops were here, forensics are, by now, probably within spitting distance, and it's likely that Cuddy literally has her hands tied up so that she couldn't possibly answer her phone. Methinks the gods of sexual fantasies took my Cuddy bondage desires a little too seriously.

Hence, why I asked, "Why?"

"I'm out of battery, give me your--"

"Wait --" A look of abrupt realization instantly snapped into place on my features. Phones, sidekicks, phones, _sidekicks_...I glanced back up at Wilson -- who regarded me curiously with a hint of annoyance at my interrupting -- after I had been glowering a hole into the carpet as my thoughts and theories worked the wheels of the clockworks in my mind until they almost fell off. "Give me _your_ phone."

"Why?" he asked waspishly as he withdrew his hand, obviously annoyed with me -- he probably thought I was mocking his theories (or lack thereof). I wouldn't do that; there was plenty of time for that later. I needed Cuddy around so I wouldn't be the only one pointing and laughing. I rolled my eyes at his almost defensive tone.

"So I can punch my digits in and so you can hit me back, bitch." He didn't look pleased at the very least; and as usual, I ignored him. I held out my palm expectantly. "Give it here."

"There's no battery!" he chimed in a sing-song voice, though surrendered to my demands as he rummaged through his trouser pockets. At least he didn't argue against whatever theory I had -- which I hoped was right.

I was ninety percent sure I was right, which meant, being who I am, I was on the money. Now, I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I'm pretty sure Wilson's new phone was the real sidekick here. I remember noticing it so much, as it distinctly was -- to me at least -- a girl's phone. He may have told me the name once or twice (once when he first considered purchasing it, second when he finally did), and my intuition tells me that the name has something to do with a sidekick...

Fingers crossed.

He held the phone out to me and I took it. Good _God,_ was that phone girly. It's red, but in the sunlight, it was pink. He insists that the color was a 'dark coral', but it's pink.

"Wilson..." I said at length, in a tone that suggested that I was scolding him for not presenting this to me earlier. He raised his eyebrows innocently at me when I peered up at him. "What type of phone is this?"

He replied instantly, as if he had rehearsed the answer. "It's the new T-Mobile Side..." Realization struck, and he assumed the deer in the headlights expression. "...kick."

I indulged myself in a small smirk, which to him was probably a smile at his eventual comprehension, proud of him, when really, I found his idiocy to be quite endearing.

"Jesus --" He sounded (and looked) a lot like the Doc from Back to the Future, who kept gasping, _"Great Scott!"_ whenever something dawned on him. Wilson pointed at the post-it frantically. "This is what he means!" Then he pointed at his phone in my hands in the same frantic manner. "He means my phone, the Sidekick, not me, _your_ sidekick -- the phone!"

He had looked so optimistic during his vocal realization while I looked not at all impressed. I did, however, make a note of the fact that he had just admitted that he was _my _sidekick. I could use that as leverage later. I instantly masked it all with mockery.

"Gold star for the oncologist!" I exclaimed with feigned glee, springing on the spot for a moment. He grinned sheepishly, though deflated at the sound of my sarcasm. I put a hand on his shoulder supportively. "Are you okay? Do you need to lie down?" He shot me a look as if to say, _"That's enough, House"_, which is funny, because I get that a lot. I dropped my hand, and asked more seriously, "Have you got your charger here?"

He nodded to me once, before promptly retreating from the room. He was heading for his office, and I followed after him. I saw him nod once at Lieutenant Skeevers too, and he nodded dismissively in return. Looking forward and evading Skeevers' assured glare, I limped at a slightly faster pace than usual to catch up with Wilson.

The atmosphere was thick with tension and anxiety, with only a small trace of hopefulness that only bothered us further. I didn't like this atmosphere; it needs to go, now.

"Your phone's pink, you know," I said, leaning into him to say it, as if I had disclosed some confidential information to him.

"It's _just_ dark coral," he replied with a resigned sigh. He sounded as if he has had to repeat those words to _everyone._

"Yeah, and I'm not _just_ an ass," I scoffed, rolling my eyes.

The tension was lifted, and we allowed ourselves to grin. But we both knew, inwardly, that it was only fleeting. Cuddy was still in danger. With that in mind, my grin faltered sooner than Wilson's.

* * *

**_A/N: _**I guess I should warn you in advance; this story might have about 948209482 Batman references. The first in this chapter was obviously the title, the second was the line 'Riddle Me This'. If you don't like it, GTFO...and come again! ;D

And my deepest, humblest apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I've been working my ass of with my other fic on LJ which is, yeah, you guessed it, Batman. Well, the Joker. And flailing over teh Huddy, of course.

_...plz 2 b reviewing, y/y?_


	7. Birthday Surprise

_**Birthday Surprise**_

I wondered what Cuddy would tell me to do in this situation. Most likely, she would ally herself with Wilson. I could see it now -- both of them glowering at me with disapproval for reasons I could not yet wrap my head around; crossing their arms, inclining their heads just enough so their frowns of objection only darkened from my elevated view. To be frank, I'd take high and mighty Cuddy any day over AWOL Cuddy, or ... _dead_ Cuddy.

"Got it," came Wilson's voice, shattering my troubling preoccupations. His head popped up from under his desk as I lingered at his door. He had been ferreting about for his cell phone's recharger in his ugly, tan man purse. Wilson knew of my unsought fault-finding of this bag and my inevitable love for vocalizing it, which is why he kept it hidden from my eyes as he had searched.

No words were shared as he mechanically set the phone and its recharger into place, and there was a collective short intake of breath as he pressed the 'ON' button.

There was a pregnant lull as the phone loaded, chiming with its commencement tones and other pointless sounds that withered my patience further. The world seemed to derive pleasure from decelerating time at the worst moments. I pictured myself snatching Father Time's scythe of which he had been using to prod me with, and snapping it into two within a hissy fit.

Wilson must have sensed my eyes narrow with agitation towards the unwanted delay, as he had blushed and oddly fixated his gaze to his phone, seemingly ashamed of it. He probably assumed that he would never hear the end of it from me. But y'know what, y'know what? He's right.

"You have one new voice message," Wilson read aloud, in a tone that suggested that he had been both dreading and hoping to see it. He looked up at me, and I could tell, just from his expression, that he was about to deliver some poor sarcasm. "I _wonder_ who it's from?"

Mhm.

"Don't do that, sarcasm makes you look fat," I said in a condemning tone, and he simply regarded me for a second, within his scrutiny of his cell, as if he had expected my panning.

I silently thanked him for not wavering on his phone, owing to my interruption, as moments later, he forced a thumb down on a particular button with a finalizing force, and settled the phone down on his desk, as a message began to play. It was loud enough to address both of us, but I found myself drawing nearer as it played, nudging the door close behind me with my good foot.

The message was _sung_ in a completely comprehensible voice by a normal human being. It was neither strained nor modulated; whoever was responsible obviously paid no regard to their anonymity. I don't know if they had the same lack of care for their own self of preservation, but I should be able to find out when I shove my cane up their ass. When I mentioned 'cane', I was referring to my walking aid, not my ... you know.

_"Happy birthday to you! This is a game just for you! I have Doctor Cuddy and some patients here too!"_

"House!" A hysterical voice. Cuddy's. "Don't -- _oof!" _My eyes flew open in alarm. My fingers tensed tightly around my cane. That sounded like a punch to the _stomach._

My eyes remained frozen on the phone, but I felt Wilson's eyes flicker at me for my reaction.

_"Happy birthday to you! Every game has their rules! You're allowed one accomplice; tell the cops and you lose!"_

"Tell them! Just te _--mff!" _There was an unpleasant stretching sound, and more muffled protests. They had taped over her mouth. I saw Wilson shifting uncomfortably in his chair from my peripheral vision. There were sounds of other men, probably the guy's lackeys, struggling with Cuddy. That's my girl, always the fighter.

_"Happy birthday to you! This message is a clue! Be swift, solve the puzzle, or a patient dies soon!"_

_"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Lisa, happy birthday to you!"_

The last line had gone through my ear and out the other. They had thieved her from me, wreaked havoc upon her working environment slash second home, embezzled their own stash of hospital patients from our own supply, and worst of all, they were hurting her. Just as I was hurting the neck of my cane in my hands until my own knuckles were drained of its color.

How and when the culprit had managed to help themselves to the hospital's patients was a matter that did not concern me at the moment. Pondering on about those matters would waste precious time, and someone may die from murder or their reigning illnesses. For once, I was tempted to let the cat out of the bag and notify the authorities. I'm a doctor, not Sherlock Holmes. And Wilson was no John Watson either -- Wilson would be my accomplice for sure, irregardless.

I _know _I have the potential to solve the mystery, but when it came to pulling a Neo and swiftly dodging bullets, I was highly deficient of that talent. Then what would happen? I would eventually roll in to their hideout, press my hands against my hips with smug satisfaction, regard my surroundings briefly and go, "Right. That's solved. Let's go, Wilson," and then leave? Actually, I _can_ imagine that. Though I wouldn't even make it to the word 'solved' without weathering a nice fatal shot in the gut. Damn mortality.

If I do this, I could die. Although, Cuddy could die either way. And without me, her chances of survival, or even the patients for that matter, decreases exceptionally. Because you know how incompetent the coppers are these days...

Yes, that was it! I cannot rely on the fuzz this time; Cuddy needs me.

The phone's message still hadn't ended, though nothing playing was relatively relevant; the message had proceeded to play the _"Lisa, It's Your Birthday"_ song from The Simpsons.

So, this son of a bitch wants to play games, huh? Cuddy's earlier efforts to thwart any attempts on my part were fruitless, but I'm sure she knew that anyway. She knows that I am _always _game.

I flashed a look of defiance at Wilson, who looked as if he had just consumed something that disagreed with his stomach.

"Her birthday was in July," I said in a confirming tone.

He nodded vaguely, as his fingers crawled their way to his phone just as the message drew to its close. It was as if his fingers were uncertain of what to do with the phone.

"It's _October," _I said, emphasizing the month with a verbal underline.

I watched as Wilson evidently gulped as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. His eyes finally regarded mine, meekly, and he immediately shoots me a pained sort of look, as if he was pitying me.

"I know," he replied in a faint, low voice. I was taken aback by his tone. It sounded as if he knew already that this conundrum was beyond us, and if we couldn't solve this one, there was nothing we could do. In short, he believed we had been defeated before we had even started. I took a bold step forward to him; it was another way of telling him that I was resisting the possibility of failure.

"If we don't solve this," I began in a firm tone, trying my best not to scowl for once, "he will kill one of the patients he abducted."

I hoped by saying this, he was reminded of the Hippocratic Oath and the obvious fact that we were doctors. I was surprised to see that my intentions were transparent.

"I know we're doctors, House," he began, in a tone that suggested that he was struggling to express it kindly. There came that pitying twist of his face hurled in my direction again. It was then when I no longer denied him my signature scowl. He continued, "But we're not super-heroes."

"We wouldn't be good _friends_ either if we were to sit on our asses and do nothing," I snarked in return; he flinched when I accentuated the word 'friends'. It was rare that I used the term in a non-sarcastic manner.

"You think I don't want to, House?" he asked incredulously. "I want those patients back in their hospital beds, in the same condition as they were before. If not, _better_, but I'll settle for the same." Both his gaze and his voice softened all of a sudden. "And don't think that you're the only one here who's got _Cuddy_ on their mind."

Was I _that _transparent when it came to Cuddy? Or was Wilson just _that_ good at deciphering me? I shifted awkwardly at my feet, both feeling exposed and not knowing how to properly respond to that without being ill-mannered.

"I can't _not_ do anything," I said in a whisper. Why it was a whisper, I don't know. Perhaps I was suppressing any traces of sentiments in my tone; particularly mockery and concern. I swallowed my unease, and continued, in a more bold tone, raising my chin, "Either I do this _with_ you, or with you kicking and screaming."

Wilson knitted his brow. I know he hadn't taken me literally, so I regarded his frown as a gesture of deliberation. His eyes wavered with irresolution, as if he were scrutinizing each of my eyes individually. After a while, his gaze snapped away from mine and he shook his head, as if further dismissing the strategy that my eyes continued to pressure him with.

"House, the chances of _us_ finding her --"

"-- are a _lot_ higher if we work together, rather than play the waiting game whilst twiddling our thumbs, and hope the cops don't run out of donuts so their focus isn't hampered," I instantly finished. I blinked away the urge to plead him with my eyes as he looked up at me; his expression mingled with a little less skepticism this time. "You _know_ I'm right."

His gaze dropping from mine confirmed that. Wilson seemed to observe random preoccupations on his desk, as if the right answer could be transpired from something there. After a few moments of ineffectual abstractions, his hands settled still on his desk and he looked at me straight in the eye. He then proceeded to ask a mindless question.

"Haven't you got a case?"

Wilson, for the love of...

"Are you serio --" My voice had only just begun to elevate with outrage when he interrupted.

"People are gonna wonder where we are!" Wilson spluttered his elaboration. He watched me visibly calm down a little, and he resumed. "If you have a case, and I have consultants, people are going to wonder where we are and why we aren't doing our jobs!"

"What are you, dense? Are you retarded or something?" I paid no heed to his flinching at my accusations, as I limped forward. "Who the hell do you think we're trying to save? Cuddy's the goddamn hospital administrator!" I shouted, flourishing my hand vaguely at the door. "Nothing is going to happen to our jobs, because only _she_ can sign for it! Jesus, Wilson."

"Well --" he started sheepishly, but I thought that enough time had been wasted.

"C'mon, let's go," I declared with finality, turning my back to him and limped back to the door and opened it.

The sound of his chair creaking with release told me that he had risen to his feet. "Where?"

I turned back to him, and leaned against the door frame. I wasn't even sure if the place I intended to go to held anything worth looking for, but it was worth a shot.

"Obviously there's nothing else worth looking for in Cuddy's office --" I began to explain.

"How do you know?" Wilson asked ambivalently, pausing to look up from organizing his effects into his wretched man purse, that had came into view on the desk. I squinted at it irritably; it was blinding me with its ugliness. I pointed to his phone with my cane, just as he was about to slip it into a different pocket of his trousers.

"That," I deadpanned. He peered up at me once with surprise, before slipping it in without further word. "That was the first clue. If you think this guy hid more in the one place, by all means, be my guest." I gestured out the door, and he rolled his eyes at me as he slipped his bag on. "You may need to disguise yourself as a member of the magnifying glass squad, or sweettalk your way past Skeevers --"

"Alright, alright," he interrupted in a defeated tone, striding towards me. He was ready to leave. "Where do you propose we should look?"

"First stop --" My hand flew up and jangled his car keys right in front of his nose; he regarded me with surprise, probably wondering how I had gotten my hands on them. "-- Cuddy's crib."

* * *

**_A/N:_** Pardon my tardiness. I've been focussing on other fics, and also school, which started a few days ago. D:

Anyone spot the famous Batman quote? I obviously had to change it a little to conform with the story. :D


End file.
